


And There May Your Heart Be Also

by The_Arkadian



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-20 16:27:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11339136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Arkadian/pseuds/The_Arkadian
Summary: Inspired by a conversation on Discord in which Anders suffers amnesia and wakes up to blurt out how beautiful Hawke is.





	And There May Your Heart Be Also

He opened his eyes slowly. 

He was lying on his back on what felt like a rough dirt surface; he could feel the gritty dust beneath his hands as they lay flung out to either side as though to embrace the rocky ceiling of the cavern overhead.

Cavern? Where was he? He blinked dazedly. There was a faint ringing in his ears and his head ached - a harsh throbbing, like someone repeatedly stabbing him through the back of his head. It was hard to see out of his left eye; it felt sticky and gummed together. There was a strange, metallic taste in his mouth.

Sounds began to crowd in upon him; shouts, a clash of metal upon metal, a smell of ozone in the air as something crackled - lightning? _Magic_ , his mind prompted slowly through the fog of his thoughts. Someone was shouting something - a deep bass voice. “Hawke, the mage is down!”

“Anders!” shouted another voice - a woman, he thought. “Hang on, Anders! We’re coming!”

 _Anders_ , he thought dully. _Is that me?_

“Take down that magister!” the woman shouted.

“With pleasure,” growled the deep voice.

He tried to sit up, but that only made the dizziness worse; he could feel something warm and wet trickle down his face. He lifted an unsteady hand to touch his cheek, and his fingers came away slicked with blood.

Oh. He was bleeding. A head wound; that would explain the throbbing pain in his head and the dizziness. He could feel a calm, analytical part of his mind working to assess his physical state. He had a concussion; he should lie down again. As he let himself slump back to the ground, he sank his senses internally, seeking out any other injuries.

There was a dull ache across his shoulders and down his back, but something told him that was normal for him - it felt somehow familiar, as did the niggling ache in his right knee which he could tell from the feel was an old injury. The pain of a bruise on his right hip - probably hit it when he fell. He wondered how long he’d been out for. Probably not long if the unknown man with the deep voice had noticed him go down.

The sound of feet hastily running towards him had him opening his eyes again, just as an elf with white hair and silvery tattoos over every patch of bare skin he could see between pieces of spiky dark armour dropped to his knees at Anders’ side. His spiked gauntlets were dripping blood.

“Anders! Lie still - you are bleeding,” he said as he leaned over the prone man.

As the elf stared down at him with a look of concern, Anders realised that the silvery tattoos were somehow _singing_ to him, and with a start he suddenly realised what they were.

“You’re covered in lyrium!” he blurted out.

The elf’s frown only deepened as he stripped off a gauntlet to reveal strong-looking brown fingers, and Anders realised even they were tattooed, like the rest of the elf that he could see. The elf gently brushed hair away from Anders’ forehead and eyes then drew in his breath with a sharp hiss as he studied the wound.

“Mage? You should lie still. Do you remember anything of what happened to you?”

“I don’t remember anything. Who are you?” Anders murmured dazedly.

The elf’s eyes flicked back to Anders’ gaze with a look of surprise. “Anders? Do you not know who I am?”

“I’m sorry... do I know you?” Anders replied. “It’s... all a blank. Where am I?”

The elf straightened and looked back over his shoulder. “Hawke!” he called urgently. “Come here! Something is very wrong with the mage!”

More footsteps, and then there were more people leaning over him, crowding around, all exclaiming surprise and asking him questions - a beardless dwarf carrying a large double-armed crossbow who kept calling him Blondie, a woman with dark skin, amber eyes and black curls held back beneath a blue bandana who kept trying to touch him, and the other woman - with long brunette hair pulled back into a braid that fell over her left shoulder and soft grey eyes that regarded him with worry. 

“Please - no - stop, I don’t remember, I can’t remember anything!” he protested as he stared up at them all. He felt hemmed in and suddenly anxious; the rocky ceiling was far too close, he was surrounded and it was getting difficult to breathe.

“Back away!” the brunette woman with grey eyes suddenly barked firmly as she gestured for everyone else to get back, before she turned and gently laid a hand on Anders’ shoulder. The elf lingered nearby as the other woman and the dwarf moved further away. The grey-eyed woman stared down at Anders.

“Anders, do you know who we are?” she asked gently. Her voice was soft and quiet, with a faint lilt he couldn’t quite place. He shook his head slowly. He couldn’t help feeling that there was something familiar about her - that he _should_ know her name - but the memory eluded him; even trying to string two coherent thoughts together was an effort right now. He gazed dazedly into her grey eyes - grey like the sea; and thought he could drown in those eyes contentedly.

“You’re beautiful!” he blurted out. “I feel like I _should_ know who you are....” 

She blinked, and then smiled hesitantly back at him, though the look of worry never left her eyes.

“The head wound, perhaps,” rumbled the elf. “I believe he was unconscious for some minutes. Likely it has affected his memory.”

Perhaps,” nodded the woman as she turned back to Anders. “I’m Arisia Hawke. Your name is Anders. And this is Fenris.” She waited expectantly.

Anders could only shrug helplessly; the names meant nothing.

Fenris glanced at Hawke; they both looked extremely worried now. “Mage... you and Hawke are lovers,” he said slowly, then glanced away.

“Oh,” said Anders, and blinked as he stared up at the elf, then looked at the woman again - Hawke. Dizzily he smiled. “Oh. Oh, wow. Really?”

“Really,” nodded Hawke with an almost shy smile.

He glanced up at the rocks overhead, stunned. “Oh...” He glanced back at Hawke again, and couldn’t help smiling. “Wow. Lucky me! You really are beautiful, you know. Are we really lovers? What did I do to deserve you?”

“Oh, Anders,” she said with a sad sigh. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up and do something about that head wound.”

As she and Fenris helped Anders to sit up, the beardless dwarf approached slowly. “Slavers are all dead, Hawke. The elf took care of that magister, though Void knows what the bastard did to Blondie.”

Hawke sighed. “Bringing down a pile of rocks on his head won’t have done much for him, regardless of what else he did.” She frowned as she concentrated on cleaning the blood off Anders’ face so she could inspect the wound more closely. “It almost looked like some kind of summoning.”

“I was unable to interrupt it in time,” said Fenris quietly. “I do not know what the magister was trying to do to Anders, but his demon appeared to release him just before the rocks began to fall.”

“Well, whatever it was, there’s no point in trying to figure it out now,” sighed Hawke as she began to dress and bandage Anders’ head wound. “Maker, this is a mess. Anders, I think it’s likely you have a concussion at the very least. I don’t _think_ your skull is cracked, thankfully, but you must have a headache.”

“Just a bit,” murmured Anders as he put his hand to his forehead, touching the soft white bandage with his fingertips gingerly.

“Can you heal yourself?” asked Hawke as she steadied him with a hand on his shoulder. Anders swallowed hard as his stomach gave a queasy lurch.

“Actually, I think I’m going to be sick,” he managed weakly before turning his face away from her and suddenly retching.

Whatever else had happened to him that day, it appeared he hadn’t eaten; at any rate, all he seemed to be bringing up was bile. After a few uncomfortable minutes, his rebellious stomach seemed to settle uneasily, and he found that Hawke was holding him gently, one hand holding his hair back. As he lifted his head to gaze back at her blearily, she gave him a reassuring smile and squeezed him briefly.

“Done?” she asked softly. He managed to nod and instantly regretted it. She pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek. “It’s alright, love,” she murmured. “We’ll get you home. I’m sure everything will come back to you once you’re in familiar surroundings again.”

 

***

Anders glanced around the foyer as Hawke helped him inside. He was still dizzy and faintly nauseous from the concussion; but as he stared around the large entry hall, nothing felt familiar at all. He swallowed hard; and as Hawke looked at him hopefully, all he could do was shake his head slowly and watch as her face fell.

“I’m sorry, this....” He gestured helplessly at the foyer, the stairs sweeping up to the mezzanine floor above, the large fireplace, the hangings on the wall. “I don’t remember any of this. I’m really sorry.” He was aware that he was clinging to her perhaps a little too tightly; though he still had no memories of either Hawke or any of her companions, still she felt somehow safe - she was real, warm and alive, and the feel of her arm around his waist and the look in her sea-grey eyes helped him to ground and centre himself when everything else had him feeling adrift and lost.

They had all told him - repeatedly - that he and this woman, this Arisia Hawke, were indeed lovers - that they had been lovers for just over a year now; and as he stared down into those soft grey eyes he felt he could almost believe it. There was something about her that made him feel he could fall in love with her all too easily.

“It’s alright,” she smiled sadly. “Maybe it’ll come back to you after you’ve slept. You look exhausted.”

“I _feel_ exhausted,” he nodded.

Hawke glanced around at the others.

“Say no more, Hawke - we’ll leave you and Blondie to it,” said the beardless dwarf - Varric, Hawke had called him. Hawke had introduced the woman as Isabela, and Isabela in turn had seemed quite put out that Anders didn’t remember her; apparently he and she had known each other back when he was in Amaranthine - which was when they’d had to explain to him that they were on the Wounded Coast near Kirkwall, and Maker but wasn’t that a nasty surprise. Of all the cities in the world he could have woken up in, it had to be the one that was swarming with templars. He knew _that_ much. It was as though someone had simply wiped clean all knowledge and memories of who he was and the people he’d known, but left intact everything else; which was how he knew he was a mage - though not which Circle he’d escaped from; he knew where Amaranthine was but not how he’d ended up there or what he’d done there. When Isabela had realised how distressed he was growing over the complete blank in his memory, she’d softened towards him, her annoyance giving way to a worry that she’d tried to cover with offhand jokes.

“I’m sure you and Hawke will have a lot of fun getting to know each other all over again, Anders,” she winked before turning to follow Varric.

Fenris lingered a moment longer. “Mage... I am... sorry for what you are experiencing,” he said slowly. “I know only too well what it is to awaken with no knowledge or memory of yourself. I... can only pray that you recover your memories soon.” He seemed about to say more, but instead dropped his gaze to a strip of red cloth wrapped around one wrist; he toyed with it briefly, then glanced up at Hawke from behind his hair. “Be gentle with him,” he growled softly, then turned and stalked out.

Hawke watched him go, unhappy, before she seemed to give herself a shake then smiled warmly up at Anders. “Come on - a hot bath and then bed, I think,” she suggested.

“Alright,” he nodded.

She led him upstairs to what he was certain was the most lavish bathroom he’d ever encountered; back at Kinloch Hold he’d been lucky if he’d had a bucket of cold water to -

He stopped and put a hand to his head as a wave of dizziness swept over him. He was aware of Hawke’s arms around him, her voice calling him.

“K-Kinloch,” he managed to stammer out. “I - I was at Kinloch Hold, the Circle there!”

“Anders?” she asked him gently. “What did you suddenly remember?”

“Just - just that,” he gasped. He tried to reach for the memory but it was trying to reach through dense fog; try as he might, nothing else would come, save a vague feeling of nameless dread and apprehension.

Something of his frustration must have shown on his face; Hawke gently cupped his cheek with her hand. “It’s alright,” she said quietly. “Your memories will come back, I’m sure of it.”

He lifted a hand to cover hers as it rested against his face. Of all the memories he’d lost, he would have given anything to remember this - her, the year the others had spoken of. She was sweet, gentle and kind, and he _wanted_ to remember her. To remember what they’d had together.

She was sweet and gentle with him, and he wanted -

He _wanted_ this, he realised. He was touch-starved; the feel of her hand on his face was at once unfamiliar and yet also in some way familiar, and it felt good, and safe, and soothing - and he knew he wanted more. He knew he could very easily fall in love with this woman, this Arisia Hawke. But would that be right? She was a stranger to him right now, and whilst something inside told him he could trust her, he had no idea what to think - Maker, it was still hard to even think straight. He was confused, his head was aching, and he didn’t know what to think.

“I think I want to lie down,” he said faintly.

He was acutely aware of the brief look of disappointment that flashed momentarily across her face before she schooled it back into a gentle smile again as she turned away to lead him to the bedroom; and he felt horribly guilty for it.

 

***

The bedroom was an essay in understated opulence. Undeniably Ferelden in style, it was dominated by the big, heavy-framed dark oak four-poster bed, the thick wine-coloured velvet curtains tied back with gold cord, the bedding all fine linen and dark red silk brocade. The carpet underfoot was thick and soft; he sat on the edge of the bed, unbuckling his boots slowly, and as he set them aside and peeled his tatty, much-darned socks off, he couldn’t help but contrast the shabby state of his clothing with the luxury around him. He set the socks aside then curled his toes slowly into the thick plush of the carpet.

He didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve _any_ of this. Just one look at that wretched rag of a coat that Hawke had so carefully draped over the back of a chair was enough to see that - shabby patchwork stitched and restitched together, the feathered pauldrons looking like dishevelled sparrows, shedding feathers here and there.

He stared down at the ragged grey robe he had been wearing beneath the coat. The fabric might have been white once; he couldn’t really tell for certain. It was worn practically threadbare in places, and several rips and tears had been carefully stitched and darned.

They were the clothes of a beggar. Not someone who belonged in a mansion such as this.

“Anders?” 

He stared up at Hawke. He couldn’t bring himself to think of her as Arisia - not even in his mind. He didn’t belong here; didn’t deserve this - which meant he didn’t deserve her, and had no right to think of her by her first name.

“Anders, what’s wrong?” she asked as she strode swiftly across the room to take his hands.

“This - this was a mistake,” he choked out hoarsely. “This - I don’t belong here. I can’t remember anything about living in Kirkwall - but I can see clearly that I don’t belong here, with all this finery and -”

“Anders, stop,” said Hawke firmly. “Maker, I am _not_ going to go through that again, I -”

She broke off as she stared at his face, and sighed. “Anders. I’m not angry at you,” she said, her voice softer. “But please... _please_ believe me when I say that you _do_ belong here. Don’t tell me you don’t deserve this.”

His head jerked up in surprise; he had about to say that very thing. Hawke smiled at him sadly, as if she somehow knew it, too.

Well, she probably did. Right now it seemed she knew more about him than he did himself.

He dropped his gaze back to his hands where they lay in his lap, fisted in the thin ragged material of the robe; with an effort, he made his hands unclench, then he took hold of the hem of the robe and stripped it off.

He stared down at his bare torso self-consciously. His skin was pale, dotted here and there with freckles.

And scars. Lots of scars. He stared down at himself, eyes widening slightly as he realised just how scarred his body was. What looked like old knife and sword wounds; a couple of strange round scars that somehow he _knew_ were old arrow wounds. An area of raised scarring, stippled in the tell-tale pattern of an acid burn. _Spider venom_ , the depths of his mind helpfully supplied.

But what drew his eye was the thick ridged scar about 4” across that neatly bisected the flesh directly over his heart. As he stared at it, he knew with certainty that it was a sword wound - and that he should not have survived it. He brushed his fingers along the scar in stunned disbelief.

“You told me that a templar did that,” Hawke said quietly. She had come to stand near him, almost but not quite touching him.

“What -” He broke off and swallowed hard. “What happened to me?” he asked, stunned.

“You didn’t tell me much, I’m afraid,” she shrugged as she sat down on the edge of the bed next to him. “It happened when you joined with Justice, back when you were in the Wardens. You left shortly after.”

“The Wardens? I’m a Grey Warden?” he exclaimed, startled, then blinked as he absorbed what she’d said. “Wait - what do you mean, ‘joined with Justice’?”

“A spirit of justice was trapped outside the Fade in a decaying dead body and needed a host as he was unable to return. The templars would have killed you, so you took Justice into yourself before you left.”

Anders stared at her. “Trapped outside the ... wait... are you saying I actually _allowed_ myself to be possessed by a spirit??” 

He could feel his heart start to race as his breath came faster; distantly he registered that he was hyperventilating. He leapt to his feet and began to pace. “No... no, this is... it can’t be true, it _can’t_! Are you telling me I’m - what, an abomination? Maker, no!” He clutched at his head; it was starting to pound again and he felt dizzy, unable to draw a deep breath.

“Anders!” exclaimed Hawke as she leapt to her feet and grabbed his arms, forcing him to stop pacing; for someone who barely came up to his chest, she seemed very strong. “Stop,” she ordered him. “You’re panicking. Take a deep breath.”

He gulped in air and tried to think past the waves of dizziness and panic. “I _can’t_ be possessed,” he insisted. “Possessed mages aren’t human - they turn into monsters. We’re trained in the Circle to resist possession and the temptations of demons - I know that much!”

“Justice is a spirit, not a demon. A spirit of justice, in fact. You were quite clear that the joining was willing and voluntary - and you and Justice are effectively one person. You told me you couldn’t tell any more where Justice ended and you began.”

“But - I don’t _feel_ as though there’s a spirit inside me,” he protested. “Shouldn’t I feel _something_?”

Hawke was staring up at him, clearly worried. “You told me - that first night you came to me,” she said slowly. “You said that Justice considered me a distraction - that it was something upon which you and he were not in agreement. I’m not entirely certain how it’s supposed to work, but I got the distinct impression that at certain times you were aware of Justice separate from your own thoughts. And sometimes he... came out, briefly. Usually when you were very upset and angry over something.” She frowned slightly. “In fact, Justice had come out as we were fighting against the slavers. Slavery is something both you and Justice feel very strongly about; it’s one of the few things in which you’re both in full agreement with Fenris, for once. That’s why we were up against that magister in the first place - and now I’m beginning to wonder if it wasn’t _you_ he was attacking, but Justice. If you say you can’t feel him....”

He stared down at her, and bit his lip. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I can’t feel anything except my head aching, and everything you say is just....” He sighed. “I wish I could remember.” He smiled wistfully. He lifted a hand and gently stroked the backs of his fingers down her cheek and felt wetness there; she caught his fingers with her hand and turned to kiss them, and the light from the fireplace gleamed softly on the tears slowly rolling down her face.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he repeated. “I wish - Maker, of all of this, I wish I could remember _you_. You’ve been so gentle and caring, and I don’t deserve it.”

“Stop that!” she said, her voice shaking slightly as she glared up at him, anger in her storm-grey eyes. “Stop saying you don’t deserve it, me, any of this! If any man ever deserved a little human love and tenderness, it’s you! You toil in that Darktown clinic day after day, exhausting yourself for them and for the mage’s underground with no thought for yourself and _you deserve this!!_ You deserve to be loved and cherished, and damn it we’ve loved each other for years, Anders! You saved my brother’s life and comforted me when Quentin killed my mother! It’s up to _me_ to decide who’s worthy of my love and I chose you a long time ago so just bloody well accept it and stop arguing!”

He stared down at her, shocked into silence by her sudden fierce diatribe.

She glared at him for a few heartbeats longer, and then sighed and dropped her gaze to his chest as she released his arms. “I’m sorry,” she said after a moment. “I’ve listened to you putting yourself down for so many years, and I can’t listen to it anymore, Anders. You can be an arrogant, blinkered, single-minded sod at times, but you’re also a damned good man who deserves far more than the shitty life you’d had. Maybe we should both be thankful you can’t remember any of that right now. Just....” She lifted her eyes to gaze up at him, tears turning her eyes to liquid silver in the firelight. “I love you, Anders,” she said brokenly. “And it’s just so hard to see you looking at me like I’m a stranger after all we’ve been through together.”

“I’m -” he began then fell silent as she shook her head.

“I know; you’re sorry,” she sighed. “Anders, this isn’t your fault. None of it is.” She turned away. “Let’s go to bed,” she said, her voice subdued. “Maybe you’ll remember more in the morning.”

He couldn’t help it then; he reached out his arms and pulled her into a hug, holding her close as she gave way to tears. 

When finally they climbed into bed, he carefully kept a distance between himself and Hawke; as he slowly drifted to sleep, he wondered why his heart ached so much and why it felt so wrong not to curl himself about her.

 

***

 

He awoke screaming from a nightmare of darkspawn and the tight, oppressive confines of a black dungeon miles underground. Beside him, he was aware of someone sitting up and a voice groggily saying, “Anders...?”

He stared at the underside of the canopy of an unfamiliar bed as he gasped for breath, heart racing; he was confused and disoriented for a moment before belatedly recalling the events of the previous day. Hawke’s bed; this was Hawke’s room - and Hawke herself was now leaning over him. Her hair was loose and dishevelled; it fell forward to brush against his chest as he panted, heart still racing in the aftermath of the nightmare.

“Anders?” she asked again, worried.

“Sorry - a dream,” he finally managed to gasp out.

“It’s alright,” she said tiredly. “I know it’s a Grey Warden thing. Been a while since you had one that bad though.”

“I don’t remember,” he said absently. His heart was slowing from its frantic pace and his breathing was easing a little.

Hawke frowned. “You still don’t remember anything?” she said slowly. “Or you just don’t remember the last time you had a nightmare this bad?”

He gave her an apologetic look. “The former, I’m afraid,” he sighed.

She turned and rose from the bed, but not before he saw the disappointed look in her eyes. She reached for her house robe and tugged it on. “It’s almost dawn,” she said without turning. “I’ll go make us some tea.”

He sat up. “Hawke?” he asked; then, more hesitantly, “Arisia?”

She halted by the door, then glanced back to him with a sad smile. “It’s alright, Anders,” she said with a half shrug. “Just rest. I’ll bring the tea up.”

He watched her go, then leaned forward to rest his head in his hands with a low groan. 

His head still ached, but his thinking was a little clearer after sleep; with an effort of concentration, he was able to draw on his healing magic enough to deal with the concussion. Thankfully the damage was minimal - he guessed that whatever had caused the original wound must have caught him a glancing blow. It shouldn’t have been enough to knock him out for several minutes and cause this level of amnesia though, and he frowned, thoughtfully, as he unwound the bandage around his head.

He was still deep in thought, rolling up the bandage absently, when Hawke returned with the tea tray.

“Ah, you managed to heal yourself then,” she remarked with a thankful note in her voice as she set the tray down. “Has it brought your memories back?”

“No,” replied Anders slowly. “But it shouldn’t have taken them in the first place.” He finally looked up at her. “You said that Justice had come out whilst we fought with those slavers yesterday - was I mishearing things, or when the elf referred to ‘his demon releasing him’ was he talking about Justice?”

“The elf is called Fenris,” she reminded him. “And yes, I think he was referring to Justice. You were lit up all blue and glowy as you usually are when Justice has decided to lend you a hand, then the magister cast something at you and the glow went out just before the magister tried to drop half the cavern roof on you, or so it seemed. Why?”

“You said it looked like the magister was trying to cast some sort of summoning spell,” Anders pressed. 

She nodded slowly. “Yes, it certainly seemed that way, although I couldn’t fathom -” She suddenly broke off, her eyes widening. “Wait. The magister wasn’t _attacking_ you....” she suddenly realised.

“... he was targeting Justice,” Anders finished for her, his expression grim. “His bringing the rocks down on my head was just his way of making sure he’d finished me off so there was nothing for Justice to try to repossess.”

“But... I thought that once someone had been possessed, the only way to separate them is by the host dying?”

“That’s what the Circle teaches,” Anders nodded. “Only it looks like that’s not entirely accurate.”

“Then... when the magister ripped Justice away from you....”

“I’m guessing Justice must have become so much a part of me that he ripped my memories away as well - at least, all the ones of who I am and, I guess, everything that had happened since he and I were joined. Have you any idea how long that had been?” he asked.

Hawke shrugged. “You arrived in Kirkwall not long before we did; I think the boatload you slipped in with were the last ones before they shut the gates on the refugees. That would have been about five years ago now.” She frowned slightly. “When we ran into Nathaniel in the Deep Roads, he seemed to think you were supposed to have died when Vigil’s Keep was overrun.”

“Nathaniel?” he echoed, startled. An image had flashed into his mind - a taciturn, dour archer, black hair, in the blue and silver of a Grey Warden archer. 

“Nathaniel Howe, I think his name was,” Hawke nodded.

“I'm also fond of the Whys, the Whos and the Whats,” Anders said slowly, his gaze unfocused.

“Anders?” Hawke approached the bed slowly. “Are you alright?”

“I... I had a cat,” Anders said softly. Things were coming back to him - hazily, dreamlike. 

“You told me the Wardens made you give him up,” she nodded as she sat on the edge of the bed and reached for his hand. he swallowed hard, then nodded, jerkily. 

_Delilah._ He remembered handing Pounce over to Nathaniel’s sister. She’d promised to keep him safe. It was the last time he’d seen his cat.

“Anders?” Her fingers had curled around his hand now; he barely registered the touch. “Anders, are your memories coming back?”

He swallowed hard, then nodded, jerkily. Things were coming back to him in fits and starts; he was being assailed by memories, emotions reawakened by things he’d seen, done, experienced. Kinloch - the long years imprisoned there. The year in solitary, when he’d thought he was going slowly mad there in the darkness. The Warden rescuing him. Of all the people it could have been, it was Lyssa Amell - Amell who had been in the Tower with him, Amell of the chestnut-brown hair and the grey eyes, so like Hawke; Amell who had given him Pounce - who had abandoned him -

“Anders! Anders, it’s alright, you’re safe - Anders, it’s OK, it’s going to be alright!”

He blinked; he was doubled over, the sheets snarled around his legs, fists clenched in his hair, face wet with tears as he rocked mindlessly. He could feel Arisia’s arms around him, the scent of her, her hair, all about him, and he gasped raggedly as he tried to pull himself out of the maelstrom of memories and emotions.

“I’m - I’m...” he gasped, trying to pull himself together.

“Don’t you dare try to tell me you’re alright when you’re clearly not,” she warned him.

He tried to laugh but it came out wrong. “I’m sorry - it’s... everything at once,” he managed to get out.

“Everything?” she echoed. “You mean - you remember me? Us?” She was staring at him hopefully, but he had to shake his head. 

“No, but - Kinloch, being in the Wardens... Nathaniel. I remember all of that. I don’t know what I was doing in Kirkwall, but -”

“You were following Karl,” she interrupted. “You came to Kirkwall for him.”

 _Karl_. How could he have forgotten Karl? “Karl! Is he - did I -”

“I’m sorry, Anders,” she said sadly as he stared up at her hopefully. She shook her head slowly. “Karl is - he... died. I’m so sorry,” she said slowly.

He stared at her, stunned. Karl, dead? No, that couldn’t be possible. “How?” he breathed.

“Anders, he... Ser Alrik, he....” Arisia was staring at him unhappily; her eyes were glimmering bright. She drew a deep breath. “They made Karl Tranquil. We got there too late. His death was... a kindness.”

“How did he die?” He could hear his voice had become rough, hoarse; his chest felt tight, as did his throat; his eyes felt hot with unshed tears. He couldn’t believe it - didn’t _want_ to believe it.

“Justice... took you over when you saw what they’d done to Karl,” Arisia said slowly, unwillingly. “Justice’s presence, it... woke Karl up somehow. He begged you to kill him and....”

“ _NO!_ ” Anders howled in denial. Not Karl. Not _his_ Karl. It couldn’t be true!

Yet, as he stared at Arisia aghast, he could see by the tears starting to run down her cheeks, the all-too-real sorrow, that it had to be true.

It was too much. He curled in upon himself and gave in to his grief.

 

***

He lost himself for a time, overwhelmed by grief. He wept until he had no more tears left. When finally he became more aware of himself, it was to the dull realisation that he was sprawled upon his side, his head in Arisia’s lap as she slowly stroked his hair and murmured soothing nonsense. His arms were wrapped around her as though clinging to a rock in the midst of the stormy sea of his emotions. He was exhausted, his eyes stinging, face wet, throat raw and tight.

He was missing so many years - years in which he had found and lost his first love, and Karl had died by his hand. Had Arisia comforted him through the loss that first time? had she cradled him like this before?

But - no, they’d been together barely a year, from what she’d said - although apparently they’d yearned silently for each other for three years before that. After the night in the Chantry. 

After Karl.

It hurt too much; the pain was real, raw, visceral. But he’d cried himself out and though his cheeks were wet, his eyes were hot and dry. He had no more tears left.

Karl was dead. Karl, the very reason why he’d been in Kirkwall in the first place, apparently. And dead by his own hand - yet he had no memory of it. It had been ripped away, along with every memory from the past six years. It felt like he was mourning that life which had been ripped away from him almost as much as he was grieving for Karl.

Arisia’s fingers trawled slowly through his hair and he clung to that sensation - to the scent of her hair, the touch of her hands, the feeling of the silk and velvet of her house robes against his cheek. Her hair hung around him like a soft silken curtain, enclosing him; he felt... safe.

“I’ve got you,” Arisia said softly, stroking his hair. “It’s OK. You’re safe. I’m here.”

“I love you,” he blurted, and knew it for the truth.

He didn’t know what the future held; he had six years of his life to discover. He might never get that back. But he was here, now; he had Arisia, and he knew he was loved - and he loved her. The rest. they’d figure out somehow. 

But right now he was safe. He was home.


End file.
